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Andy couldn’t believe he let Liam talk him into dressing up as a pirate for Halloween. He much preferred passing out candy from the comfort of his living room, but Liam had insisted they do something different this year.

“I look like an idiot,” Andy whined, flopping down on the couch to wait on Liam. His boyfriend picked out the costumes, but maybe next time he’d think twice before giving him that much power. Liam tended to go a little overboard for holidays and he always ended up having to reel him back in. Continue reading →

None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t been born colorblind, so it’s your parents’ fault really. Sure, your cousin Millie dragged you to the party and shoved that huge bowl of popcorn in your face, but she didn’t make you eat it. As your thirst grew, you tried to remember what she’d said about the punch. Continue reading →

Kevin slept like a rock. As soon as his eyelids shut, they stitched together, and nothing short of a good eight hours of sleep could rouse him from slumber. The meds he’d just started exacerbated the fact that it took a stampeding marching band to pull him back up once he went under.

But some nights went awry.

Some nights, a gentle hand on his shoulder was all it took to wake him, and some nights, that gentle hand accompanied a harsh whisper in his ear.

Daniel heard the front door open and hurried to get Rusty into position. The little fluffy ball of a Pomerania wiggled its hind legs as he struggled to squeeze them into the tiny hole he’d cut out in the top of a pumpkin. “You gotta work with me here, Rusty. Daddy’s home.” After a little huffing and puffing, Daniel managed to get Rusty’s torso stuffed inside. “Okay, now look cute.” Continue reading →

A noise in the other room pulls me from sleep and I spring out of bed. When I get to the kitchen, I find Miguel vigorously stirring something in a bowl, the sound of metal scrapping metal grating on my eardrums. It’s eggs, I deduce from the empty carton on the counter next to the sausage he grabs and adds to the bowl, and not once does he stop his whisking.

The pan sizzles—a much more welcoming sound—when he pours in the mixture, and my mouth salivates. He’s an excellent chef; his creations always fill the apartment with the most succulent aromas. I smell a hint of peppers and onions as well, but my focus is on the wonderful fragrance of sautéing meat.

I don’t know why he bothered putting on a shirt, perhaps to combat the splattering of grease, but it’s the only thing he’s wearing minus the flip-flops on his feet. His perfectly sculpted ass is on full display as I trot over to him and take my place at his side. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to sample the goods.

“Buenos dias, Max,” he greets me, and I beam up at him. “Smells good, no?”

This is our usual Sunday morning routine.

Miguel comes over every Saturday night after his shift at the hotel. He’s a salsa instructor by day, professional dancer by night and has the sleekest thighs I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of legs. After a late dinner, we curl up on the couch and watch a movie—last night it was some Marvel thing—then stumble towards the bedroom in the dark.

I’m not sure how he’s able to slip out of bed without me noticing in the morning, but he’s as quiet as a mouse. I then wake up to thudding in the kitchen and have to investigate. That’s where Patrick finds us, Miguel cooking breakfast and me hoping for a dropped morsel as I scrutinize the floor.

“Max, you tubby thing! Are you begging for food again?” Patrick reprimands, and I do my best to look ashamed, but I know Miguel feels bad for me because he always saves me a piece of sausage. He winks down at me and I wag my stubby tail.

I like him. Patrick seems to as well.

He joins us by the stove and presses his mouth to Miguel’s. He does that with affection, I’ve learned, but Miguel can’t lick his face as well as I do.

My alpha isn’t wearing any clothes, which, in my opinion, is an animal’s natural state. And I know from personal experience, and from witnessing last night’s display, that “animalistic” is the only way to describe them.

Patrick makes his way over to the table to await his meal. I’ll get fed later, but the pieces of sausage and egg Miguel sneaks my way will tie me over while they finish breakfast and we move on to the next phase of our Sunday morning routine: a nice, noisy shower for them and a long nap for yours truly.

A/n: I never write in 1st pov, but experimenting is fun!

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He turns his back to you and you think that that’s it, that you’ve lost, everything you were, everything you could have been is over, relegated to flashes of neurons in your memory and phantom touches that leave you empty when you’re curled up in bed on those long, lonely nights.

You’ve been here before, with others, with ones that left you cold and your heart locked away, but you thought, you hoped, he was different. He thawed you, he made you believe him when he told you “till death us do part,” made you believe the murmurs of “I love you” when he was pressing into you, when you pressed into him, strong fingers running down an equally strong spine.

But now here you stand, cars whizzing by and Ben ten feet away but so far out of your reach. It’s a physical thing, when a heart breaks in two, when a life joined for so long gets fractured apart, and it happens so slowly like how beaches are carried away one grain at a time until one day, without warning, you fall right into the sea.

There’s more fish, so they say, but you’ve already caught a good one with dark eyes and dark hair and a soul as bright as the blistering sun. He’s not catch and release, he’s the love of your life, the part of your soul you searched high and low for. And you’ve staked your claim, mounted him on your wall, but you know that’s no way to keep a wild thing.

You look back to regard him, his head’s hanging low with shoulders pulled in, and you can tell he’s crying by the quake of them. You’ve killed him, you think, it’s a catch-22, and what does that say about you, that you’d rather have him dead and all yours than alive and free?

But you can’t help it, you want him, as much as you did the first day you met.

Unstable legs carry you to him and he looks up at you through tearful eyes. “Ben, I…I’m sorry,” you say and throw arms around him, encouraged by the fact he doesn’t push you away.

His breath hitches and so does yours as you stand there and sob, staining shirts and skin and souls alike. You wipe the tears from each other’s eyes and head back hand-in-hand to the car parked crooked on the side of the road, keys in the ignition and motor still running.

In twenty years time neither of you will remember what your first fight as a married couple was about, but that’s a very good thing considering it snowballed out of control on the straw of a fucking blue raspberry slushy.

A/n: This was my first attempt at doing this flash fiction thing, and I’ll admit I had exactly zero inspiration for this all week until this second person plot jumped into my head. It’s not a pov I do often, but I like to dabble in it from time to time.

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